A Nicolas Le Floch Christmas Mystery
by Laura Harkness
Summary: It's Christmas Eve night in eighteenth century Paris. Commissaire Nicolas Le Floch and Inspector Pierre Bourdeau are sent to an exclusive mansion in one of the new and affluent suburbs of the city, where mystery awaits...


**A Nicolas Le Floch Christmas Mystery**

_"Time and tide wait for no man."_  
><em>Geoffrey Chaucer <em>

"We are the whipped cream of Europe," Pierre Bourdeau sighed.

The Commissaire looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "Voltaire. Always Voltaire," he murmured beneath his breath. Nicolas was going to add a small reprimand, but then thought better of it. After all, it was Christmas Eve, and he and his Inspector were working late. So instead he decided to have a bit of fun.

"Paris is the world," Le Floch smiled wickedly, "the rest of the earth is nothing but its suburbs."

That brought a low chuckle from Bourdeau.

The two men stood in darkness, in the falling snow, outside one of the more exclusive _hôtels particulier _of Paris. They had padded through the shadowy gardens, their boots crunching softly on the frozen ground, only to arrive at an enormous set of securely locked doors.

Nicolas rifled through his pockets, pulling out a small package of lock picks. "This should only take a moment," he extracted what he guessed would be the best tool for the job. "I see no point in continuing to bash away on the door knocker."

Bourdeau motioned at the massive iron Vecchio face staring down at him. "It takes both hands to lift the infernal iron ring. Is this supposed to be amusing or just in poor taste?"

"It's Italian," Nicolas responded before leaning closer to the keyhole. "Doesn't that answer your question?"

He realized he was not in a good mood. The temptation to look at his watch and check the time was almost overwhelming. A mysterious note addressed specifically to him, and delivered at _le Grand Châtelet_ by an anonymous agent wrapped in a thick cloak who then quickly disappeared into the night, was not the Christmas gift he wanted.

He had been looking forward to Midnight Mass at _Saint-Eustache_, and then the _Réveillon_ that would follow at the Noblecourt residence. Catherine had promised a feast, including a succulent goose on center stage, plus oysters, foie gras, and in honor of his own birthplace, buckwheat cakes with sour cream. Scemacgus would be there, along with de La Borde. And then there would be the wine… Lots of wine.

He had ordered Bourdeau to stay behind. After all the man had a wife and children to go home to. But the Inspector would have none of it. Nicolas could tell by the look on his partner's face that there would be no arguing.

The note had been closed with a lump of red wax, there was no seal affixed. Once opened, an address was written in what appeared to be a polished hand. "Hurry," was added at the bottom, almost looking like an afterthought.

The mansion was located in the elegant new _faubourg_ of St Germain. Not being certain of finding a cab, they had taken horses, grateful for Sartine's streetlights as they made their way through the accumulating snow.

The lock clicked. The heavy wood door groaned. Le Floch and Bourdeau peered into an entryway. Beyond it, illuminated dimly through tall windows, was an enormous _appartement de parade_.

Nicolas put away his tools and took a small black book out of a different pocket, along with a pencil. He touched the lead to his tongue for a second, wrote down a few words, and then nodded at his Inspector. They'd been working together for so long that words were unnecessary in situations like this. They moved as one into the mansion, both stomping the snow off their boots on the thick rug.

"Hello?" Nicolas called out. "This is the police." It was not much more than a loud whisper. He didn't expect an answer, but it was part of the routine. "Is anyone here? Hello? May we come in?"

Their eyes, already accustomed to the darkness, were able to make out the Christmas tree occupying the center of the reception room. Even if they hadn't seen it, they would've known it was there from the pungent spruce smell that permeated the air. The only sound to be heard was the ticking of clocks, which were beating out a mechanical rhythm.

There were, in fact, clocks everywhere. Not one but three pendulum clocks sat on the fireplace mantel alone. Nicolas now knew without a doubt what time it was, it was nearly midnight. Worshipers would be filing into the brilliantly illuminated great and small cathedrals and churches all over his city. His country. Soon carillons and carols would echo joyful melodies.

The mantel clock cases were gilded, and the gold shined softly. Bourdeau walked up to one and studied it, "They are all perfectly synchronized. Someone has been winding them." He ran his index finger down the length of the mantelpiece then rubbed it with his thumb as he sniffed the air. His eyes flashed. "No dust. Everything in its place. I'm not sure why we are here, Commissaire."

Le Floch had moved to one of the windows, where a telescope on a tripod was standing. It swiveled freely on its perch. "Go upstairs and look around, I'll finish examination of the first floor." He motioned at a table with several candles, "Be cautious and take a candle with you."

He watched silently as Bourdeau lit two candles, took one, and slowly moved up the staircase. Then, with the other candle, Nicolas began his inspection of the main floor of the _hôtel_. The great reception room was cold and drafty. Several sofas shared space with the tree. He moved on. The smaller _appartements de commodité_ were intimately and elegantly appointed. Le Floch disturbed nothing as he took in a room, methodically noting its furniture and the numerous esoteric items that occupied every flat surface. The walls and upholstery were richly covered with stylish designs. Each room had at least one clock ticking away, reminding him that time was unavoidably passing. "Indeed, why are we here, Bourdeau?" he exhaled as he let his eyes go unfocused for the briefest moment. Nothing seemed amiss...

"Nicolas!" the shout made him jump. "Come here, quickly!"

Le Floch spun around fast enough to make his candle sputter and die. He raced up the stairs and down the hallway, "Where are you?"

"Here!"

He could smell it before he saw it. The sickly, metallic odor of blood. It was unmistakable.

The Inspector was standing in a small, cramped room that contained a single bed, two chairs and several low tables. The body on the floor was in a fetal position, wrapped a dressing gown that matched the wallpaper and upholstery. An inch or so from an outstretched hand, a key lay on the parquet tile.

"Let me get that for you." Bourdeau took Nicolas' candle and relit it.

In the flickering gloom, Le Floch made a quick sketch in his book then crouched down by the body. It was a young man, perhaps in his early 30's. He had a stubble of beard below his unseeing eyes. A pool of thick blood had spread beneath his torso, but no weapon was visible. Lowering his face to within inches of the dead man's, he inhaled carefully, slowly, then leaned back and gently rolled the body onto its back.

Bourdeau let out a soundless, involuntary gasp. There was a wound directly over the heart. A stain of blood marked it clearly on the fabric of the dressing gown. "A crime of passion?" This was said almost without thinking.

"Or meant to appear that way." Nicolas stood up and stretched out his shoulders. A few feet away, a strange-looking device started to make a mechanical whirring sound. The noise startled the Inspector and his Commissaire.

Le Floch walked over to it. "Ah! A planisphere clock!"

"A what?"

"A scientific device that demonstrates mean and solar time in many cities around the globe, as well as shows us the timing of the tides. I have read about these but not seen one until this moment."

The planisphere began chiming. In the distance, Nicolas could hear bells ringing. It was midnight.

He looked down at the body and reflected for a moment. "Time and tide wait for no man," he said. "There's nothing more we can do here tonight, my friend. We will seal the doors and establish a guard. Tomorrow you will have the body brought to _le Châtelet_ for Sanson to examine. In the meantime, you should go home to your family."

Bourdeau nodded, but then reconsidered and asked his bachelor friend, "And what of you? Where are you to go?"

Nicolas was about to pull out his timepiece but then thought better of it, inside this mansion filled with clocks. Clocks reminding him that mortality was part of life, and that their pendulums were a sign that each moment was fleeting, never to return. "I have just enough time to get to the Church. Monsieur de Noblecourt will have a seat waiting for me."

Bourdeau took a blanket off the small bed and covered the body after gently closing the man's eyes. "Very well. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, but take your time. It is Christmas after all."

"Yes, Nicolas, Merry Christmas," Bourdeau smiled warmly, despite the setting.

"Merry Christmas, Pierre," Le Floch smiled back at him.


End file.
